


Sea Glass

by armyofskanks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College/University, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of Past Semishira, Mild Sexual Content, Nautical Goshiki, Post-Canon, Tone Changes from Ridiculous to Serious to Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-11 11:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofskanks/pseuds/armyofskanks
Summary: It’s the day of the annual Shiratorizawa Volleyball Club reunion or, as Shirabu would more aptly call it, “The Museum of Broken Hearts.”





	1. Ebb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello treasured friends, are you ready for some goshira indulgence? I sure am.
> 
> I want to personally apologize for 70% of this fic, the other 30% is on thin ice. Enjoy! 
> 
> **About the rating** : I consider this fic a very low M. there’s nothing outright explicit here, but there’s some heavily suggestive content (it’s a friends w/ benefits story after all) as well as dialogue that I think exceeds the boundary of a T rating. please use discretion when reading!

It’s the day of the Shiratorizawa Volleyball Club reunion or, as Shirabu would more aptly call it, “The Museum of Broken Hearts.” He standing in front of a door marked 501, Ushijima and Tendou’s new apartment, summoning up the courage to knock. He knows once he crosses that threshold, he’ll be deep territory that, once familiar, now feels distant and foreign.

Shiratorizawa isn’t his home anymore. Despite adamant promises to stay in touch, it’s been two, maybe three years since he’s had any meaningful contact with any of his teammates outside of Goshiki, Kawanishi, and Tendou.

If he’s being _completely_ honest, Semi should be in that number, too. But after they broke up five months ago, things have been touch-and-go with their relationship. They haven’t even been in the same room since that fateful day. Coupled with the fact that Shirabu still gets faint flashes of envy whenever he sees Ushijima with Tendou, the whole situation is ripe for disaster.

That’s why, if it were up to him, he wouldn’t be here. Unfortunately, his roommate and best friend, Yahaba, had other opinions on the matter, and he’s _quite_ persuasive when he wants to be. Somehow, the nosy prick found out about Shiratorizawa’s annual tradition and twisted Shirabu’s arm—literally and figuratively—until he agreed to go.

It’s 9 a.m. on a Saturday; he should be sleeping, not being subjected to potential emotional torture. And why the fuck did Tendou and Ushijima choose a brunch party anyway? He appreciates that they have a “domestic” thing going on. Doesn’t mean they need to drag everyone else into it.

He glances down at the host gift he brought, a bottle of mid-tier whiskey, in his left hand. Yahaba may have forced his attendance the event, but Shirabu never stipulated to a level of sobriety. Besides, what fun is brunch if you’re not getting plastered? Feeling more confident, he raises his fist, but before he can even make contact with the door, it swings open.

“I was wondering when you’d decide to come in,” Tendou says cheerfully. “Oh! Is that for us?”

Shirabu decides to gloss over the fact that Tendou must’ve been staring through the peephole this whole time.

“It’s rude to show up empty-handed. Some of us have class.” He passes the bottle to Tendou and enters the apartment. As he adds his shoes to the pile by the door (he does _not_ notice Semi’s ratty Doc Martens), he surveys the room. It’s a cozy set-up with lots of natural light, an enviable view of the city, and tasteful decor —an upgrade from Ushijima’s spartan studio and Tendou’s sketchy cave-apartment. He’s heartened to see that when living together, their aesthetics harmonize into something both habitable _and_ aesthetically pleasing.

“Oh, you’re so gracious,” Tendou coos, examining the whiskey like he’s a connoisseur of fine liquor. It’s a bold look from someone whose self-proclaimed favorite drink is something he calls ‘trash juice.’ “This looks like a nice bottle, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s no big deal. Thanks for having me over.” Now that he has his shoes and sweater off, Shirabu isn’t sure what to do with himself. The familiar voices coming from deeper in the apartment are doing nothing to ease his anxiety.

“And you’re so _formal_ ,” Tendou whines. “You don’t have to thank me for letting you, my friend, come to my house.”

Shirabu does his best to focus on the conversation at hand. Normally, this would be the cue for playful banter, he’d tell Tendou he’s mistaken about their friendship, they’d laugh. But right now, he’s so wrapped up in his own insecurity that he can only manage a docile, “you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Tendou’s eyes go wide. “Shit. You just said I was right unironically. Are you ok?”

“What do you think?”

Tendou makes a sound of understanding and leans in. He touches Shirabu’s arm, encouraging him to do the same.

“As you can tell, _everyone_ is in the kitchen,” he whispers. “You can either come hang out in there. Or, if you’d prefer, I can send some friends out here.” It’s no secret when Tendou says “ _everyone,_ ” he’s referring to one person in particular.

A lot of aspects of Shirabu’s friendship with Tendou are surprising, and his supportive and empathetic attitude after the break-up is no exception. He fully expected Tendou to shift his loyalty only to Semi, given that they’ve been close friends since high school. But Tendou is a lot of things—including a truly kind person.

“I appreciate it,” Shirabu says. “I think I’ll come to the kitchen.”

“Are you sure? It could be fun staying out here. We have a karaoke machine.”

A loud outburst of laughter catches Shirabu’s attention. “I’d rather take my chances in there. Just stay with me until I find someone to talk to, ok?”

Tendou grins and gives Shirabu a thumbs up. “You have my word.”

⁂

No more than two steps into the kitchen, Tendou, a certified crow-person, gets distracted by a shiny object (Ushijima) and ditches Shirabu completely.

So much for “truly kind.”

To be fair, Ushijima appears to be the main attraction. Everyone is crowded around him, some taking pictures, some screaming, some laughing, some scream-laughing. It’s utter chaos, and Shirabu needs to see what’s got everyone so riled for himself. He searches for an opening in the circle, careful to avoid that familiar leather jacket, and finds a spot near Reon, who greets him with a warm smile and a pat on the back.

“Why is everyone freaking out,” Shirabu asks.

“Check out Ushijima’s apron.” Reon steps aside so he can get an unobstructed view.

It’s a patterned monstrosity with the phrase “beat my meat” written in red, cursive script across the chest. But the real pièce de résistance is Ushijima’s innocent, mildly confused expression.

He’s oblivious to the entendre.

“Oh shit, this is too good,” Shirabu says through a laugh. He grabs his phone to snap a picture.

“I know, right? You just missed him put it on.” True to his polite nature, Reon is simply observing, not documenting the event.

“Everyone, everyone! Pipe down,” Tendou yells. He moves to hold court next to Ushijima. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about, this apron simply refers to an important step of meal preparation: tenderizing the meat.”

Ushijima nods.

A voice Shirabu recognizes as Semi’s chimes in. “Yeah, but it says ‘beat _my_ meat’ not ‘beat _the_ meat.’ So, I call bullshit.”

“Ugh, you and your semantics.” Tendou waves his hands dismissively.

The room reignites into laughter and crass comments, and Shirabu rolls his eyes. No matter how many years pass, the same lame jokes never fail to create chaos. Fortunately, the second wave of clamor passes quicker than the first, and people start to disperse into small groups for civilized, indoor-voice chatter.

Shirabu realizes this would be a good time go say “hello” to the people he knows; he spotted Goshiki, as well as some of the other first years, when he walked in. Kawanishi is nowhere to be found, but that’s no surprise. He’s never less than an hour late to social events, and the party officially started thirty minutes ago.

“Hey.”

Shirabu looks up, right into the face of the last person he wants to see.

“Hi, Semi.” His voice is deceptively calm in contrast to the hammering of his heart. He wasn’t ready for this to happen.

Semi smiles, but it’s not his normal crooked grin. It’s tight and hesitant, a sign that he was not expecting an ounce of civility. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good, just trying to get through the semester. How about you?”

“I can’t complain. English is tough, but you know that already. It’s hard not having you to practice with.”

Shirabu feels like he’s been thrown a curveball. He pauses, waiting for the familiar rush of affection to overpower him. When it doesn’t come, he’s able to regain his footing.

“A lot of people speak English, Semi. Your inability to practice sounds like a lack of friends issue, not a lack of me issue,” he teases.

“God, I do not miss that mouth of yours,” Semi says, but there’s no bite behind his words. Instead, it feels akin to the banter they both enjoy.

The two of them discuss classes for a couple minutes before the conversation slows to an impasse, and Shirabu recognizes this is as far as they can go for now. He’d rather jump ship now than push his luck any further.

“Well, I’m going to grab something to eat. Maybe we can talk more later,” he offers tentatively.

Semi exhales, a pleased huff. “I’d like that.”

So, the world didn’t go up in flames when he talked to Semi. Shirabu didn’t go up in flames when he talked to Semi. Perhaps he spent so much time avoiding him over the last five months, that he never stopped to assess his actual investment in the matter.

The realization dawns on him: at some point, he must have gotten over Semi.

It should grant him a sense of relief; everyone preaches about the mercy of getting over your ex. But instead he finds only emptiness. When they were together, Shirabu felt content, stable. When they broke up, he felt heartbroken, dismal. Either way, whether good or bad, at least he felt _something_. Now, he has to confront the fact that he’s going to return to silent static of feeling nothing at all.

Which means it’s high time for a drink, if for no other reason than to stave it off just a little bit longer.

He spots his bottle of whiskey on the counter and wonders how rude it would be to pop it open and go to town. After _careful_ consideration, he concludes that might be impolite to start drinking it alone—he did bring it as a gift—but not if he calls in reinforcements.

“Hey, Yamagata.”

Yamagata is leaning against the kitchen counter, vigorously swiping his phone, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s searching for matches at a brunch party. Still, it’s a good sign that the guy actually knows where his phone is. “Hey, Shirabu. What’s up, dude?"

Shirabu blinks, adjusting to his colloquial manner of speaking. “How would you like to take some shots?”

 _That_ gets his attention. “Shots? Oh fuck yeah, I didn’t even know you were into stuff like that, you tightass.”

“Well, right now I am,” Shirabu replies, ignoring the chide. He pours them each what he has to guesstimate is the equivalent of a shot. Tendou and Ushijima are making use of their new, mature kitchenware, which doesn’t seem to include shot glasses.

“Cheers!”

Shirabu raises his glass, steadies himself, then takes the shot as quickly as possible. It stings as he swallows, replaced seconds later by a warm, emanating feeling. He wants to chase that.

“Another?”

“Sure! Serve it up,” Yamagata says, offering his cup.

Shirabu refills their glasses more liberally this time and even “cheers” with Yamagata. The second round is easier, and before long, Shirabu can feel a comfortable haze setting in. Satisfied by the start, he grabs what looks like a pre-made bloody mary off the counter (knowing full well that mixing clear and dark liquors will send him into blackout territory) and heads to the living room, where everyone else seems to have migrated.

Unfortunately, Yamagata seems to have gotten the impression that their shot-taking created some sort of camaraderie, because he follows close behind, chattering away about his plans for the weekend.

“I figured it would be fun to find a city girl to, you know, show me around,” Yamagata says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ok one, you’ve been to Tokyo before,” Shirabu replies with a dry laugh. “And two, if you wanted a ‘tour guide’ so badly, you could’ve just asked me. At least I’m a sure thing.”

Did he just proposition Yamagata? That’s probably fine. He’s halfway through his third drink and _feeling himself_. At the very least, he was wise enough to fix a plate of food back in the kitchen, so he’s not running on an empty stomach.

“Har har, Shirabu.” Yamagata looks back at his phone. “Damn, the girls around here are pretty. Maybe I should’ve stayed around here for university.”

“If you think they’re attractive, they probably find you mediocre at best.”

“Go fuck yourself. What do you know about what girls want anyway?” There’s a long pause, as Yamagata studies something on the screen. His finger swipes right.

“A whole hell of a lot more than you—you perpetually single frat boy wannabe!”

Yamagata just about spills his drink at that one. “Hey,” he screeches, capturing the attention of Goshiki and his cluster of other prior first years. “I am a good fucking person—and very desirable!”

Shirabu knows _that_ . Yamagata remains one of the nicest guys he’s met, even if he’s a bit spacey and a lot of a try-hard. But _,_ as Shirabu is learning now, It’s also ridiculously easy to get a rise out of him, and everyone knows it’s wasteful not to pick low-hanging fruit.

“I’ll tell you what, if grab us another round, I’ll help you seal the deal with one of your matches,” he says. “Assuming you have any.”

“For your information, I have plenty of—” Yamagata stops, inhaling sharply, and rises to his feet. It seems that his desperation to score outshines his pride. “Can you actually help me, or are you just too lazy to go get yourself a drink?”

“Uh, a little A, little B.”

“You’re a fucking trip, Shirabu. You know that,” Yamagata scoffs.

Two more whiskeys and a long strategy session later, Shirabu is feeling unwound and uninhibited. Fortunately, the energy in the room has picked up, he’s not the only one who’s been drinking heavily, and from past experience, it’s about to get weird.

Arguably, it’s _been_ weird, given that Shirabu has spent all his time helping Yamagata, a guy he never really got to know off the court, get laid. But Kawanishi hasn’t shown up, Tendou is occupied with Ushijima, and Shirabu has yet to say hi to Goshiki.

Wait, why hasn’t he done that?

He tries to stand and is met with a violent spinning sensation. His vision blurs, and Yamagata’s voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking through a cardboard tube. Shirabu knows how this ends. When he sobers up later, he’ll only have a scattered collection of memories to guide him through the next few hours.

Sighing, he polishes off the last sip in his glass and leans in to the darkness.

⁂

He’s on the ground, laying on his stomach, watching Tendou and Semi perform a rock duet on the karaoke machine. Semi’s face is flushed and sweaty, a sign that he’s close to his own limits, but he’s singing, no, howling his heart out into the microphone. By the end of the song, they’re falling on each other in a drunk heap.

Everyone is claps and whoops despite the fact that it was an off-key disaster. Even Shirabu screams his appreciation.

⁂

He’s back on the couch again, eating a cold pancake with his hands. It’s unclear how much time has passed, or how and where he got this snack. He doesn’t remember the brunch buffet having pancakes as an option. All he knows for sure right now is that someone is shaking him—hard. A figure swims into view. It’s Yamagata.

“Wa-what are you—”

“Have you seen my phone,” he pleads, tightening his death-grip on Shirabu’s shoulders. “That sexy brunette we were talking to asked me to hang out later, and now I can’t find my phone!”

“Which one is it,” Shirabu slurs. “‘The one with the snake or the field hockey player?”

“The one with the snake.”

“Shiiit. That sucks.” Shirabu shakes his head slowly, trying to express his sympathy without sending himself into a fit of vertigo. “Wait, did you check your pockets?”

“Are you seriously asking if I checked my fucking _pockets_?” Yamagata paces and pulls at his hair. “Fuck! This can’t be happening!”

⁂

“Shirabu? Shirabuuu. It’s your move. What are you going to do?”

He’s at the kitchen table, holding five cards in his hand. Poker—he must be playing poker right now. He looks up to see Kawanishi and Goshiki sitting with him.

“Kawanishi? When did you get here,” he asks.

“Like, an hour ago? You literally let me in the door.” Kawanishi furrows his brow. “Are you really that gone?”

Shirabu looks over at Goshiki, who offers him a small smile. “You’ve been sitting with me for the past half-hour. You kept apologizing for not saying hi.”

“Oh,” Shirabu mumbles.

“What’s your play,” Kawanishi prods. “This is my hand.” He gestures at his cards, a three-of-a-kind. “And Goshiki folded.”

Shirabu studies his own cards. The numbers and suits look like an incoherent jumble, and he can’t seem to recall the hierarchy of poker hands. “Uh, I guess I’m in.” He sets his cards on the table.

“Goddamnit! That’s a full house.” Kawanishi slams his hands down in frustration. “Why are you so lucky?”

“I’m not lucky,” Shirabu says. Something else clicks in his mind. “Wait, what did I win?”  

Goshiki slides a cup over to him. “This water, please try to drink it all.”

⁂⁂⁂

When Shirabu comes to again, he’s met with cool air on his face and the unmistakable feel of gentle fingers running through his hair. His eyes flutter open, fully expecting to find himself laying by the lake, or on the grass in the park—not on Goshiki’s lap, in the back of Kyoutani’s car.

“Shirabu!” Goshiki says, in a voice too loud for an enclosed space. “You’re awake!”  

Shirabu winces. “Shh. Please keep it down.”

“Sorry,” Goshiki whispers and resumes his scalp massaging with renewed vigor. Shirabu has half a mind to tell him to stop, but he can’t ignore the soothing effect it has on his growing headache.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Yahaba maneuvers his body so that he can peer into the backseat. “How are you doing? Kyoutani says if you’re going to puke, tell him to pull over.”

“I’m ok.” Aside from the headache and brain fog, he feels stable. “How did I get here?”  

“Goshiki called me,” Yahaba explains.

“Only because you asked me to,” He butts in, cutting off any potential flare up from Shirabu. “After you drank your water, you fell asleep at the kitchen table for a while. Tendou offered to let you sleep it off in the guest room, but you insisted that I take you home. The problem was that when we got on the street, you couldn’t figure out where you lived. We walked in circles until you told me to call Yahaba for help.”

“Holy shit.” Shirabu is glad he’s too out of it to feel embarrassed. Goshiki _really_ shouldn’t have been subjected to his drunk antics but, at the same time, Shirabu knows he would go above and beyond to keep him safe and secure. He’s just that kind of person, he’d do the same for anyone he cares about.

“I convinced Kyou that we should come rescue you,” Yahaba says. “It was the right choice. When we rolled up, you were sacked out in a bus shelter. Oh, you looked so damn cute.”

“He insisted we get pictures,” Kyoutani adds.

“Those better not see the light of day,” Shirabu warns,  then realizes he’s forgetting something very important. “Thank you for coming to get me Kyoutani, Yahaba. I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank us for being your friends, Shirabu,” Yahaba says. Kyoutani grunts his agreement.

The rest of the car ride passes without incident (everyone stays quiet to accommodate his impending hangover) and soon, he can sense that they’ve pulled into their apartment’s parking garage.

It takes some coaxing, but Shirabu eventually agrees to trade the relative comfort of the backseat for the actual comfort of his bed. Goshiki supports him the entire way back to the apartment, a fact his wobbly self appreciates, and even helps him take off his shoes at the door.

“I’m going to grab you some water.” Goshiki says. He’s rooting around in their fridge like he owns the place. “You go lay down.”

Shirabu doesn’t have to be told twice. He heads to his room, ignoring the _“wow, he’s a good catch”_ stare Yahaba is giving him, and crashes face first into his pillows. With some effort, he successfully removes his jeans and button-down and snuggles into his blankets.

When Goshiki doesn’t return immediately, he assumes that it’s because he’s gotten ensnared by Yahaba. Under any other circumstances, he’d have the sense to interrupt whatever bullshit his roommate is up to but standing is an impossibility. He waits patiently until Goshiki appears again, bearing water, a sports drink, and painkillers.

“I guess if you have everything you need, I’m going to head out,” he says. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking sheepish and unsure. “Yahaba told me that the station is a ten minute walk, and the next train comes in a half-hour.”

Shirabu nods. “Thank you for helping me get home. I hope I didn’t ruin your time at the party.”

“No!” Goshiki chimes in fast, too fast. “I mean, uh, well it was nice to hang out with you. It’s been a few months. Plus, you’re impressively coherent when you’re drunk.”

Shirabu isn’t sure today counts as “hanging out,” but he can’t disagree with the sentiment. While Goshiki’s over enthusiastic attitude might have frayed his nerves on the court, the two of them got along swimmingly in most other situations. Despite what his frequent teasing might suggest, Shirabu finds his company to be...refreshing. There’s something balancing about being around someone different than you in practically every way. It’s the same principle behind Yahaba and his strong friendship.

“You’re welcome to stick around for a bit if you don’t talk too much,” Shirabu says. He’s not sure what his angle is or if there’s an angle at all; all he knows is that there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to be alone right now. “I’ll probably end up passing out but—”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Goshiki has slid himself back, so he’s resting against the headboard of the bed. “Sounds good,” he says nonchalantly, like he _hadn’t_ been waiting for the offer. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

There’s a couple of minutes of silence, giving Shirabu enough time to wonder if this was a bad idea, followed by the return of Goshiki’s fingers in his hair. The strokes are tentative at first but, as Shirabu purrs his approval, they become more like the bold massaging from the car.

Whether it’s loneliness, the last remnants of the alcohol’s hold over his mind, or something far less tangible, he determines that he needs more contact.

“Come here,” Shirabu says softly, rolling onto his side. “Hold me.”

For a split second, he fears he’s crossed a line, until a rustling sound from behind him assures that Goshiki is willing to comply.

Arms wrap around his middle, and he’s surprised when Goshiki pulls him flush against his chest. The two have had a size difference since high school, but with Shirabu’s height remaining stagnant and Goshiki growing to be almost as tall as Tendou, it’s more pronounced now than ever. His larger form curls around Shirabu, keeping him snug and cozy.

It’s not just his size that makes him an ideal cuddler. Goshiki thrives off physical affection. During his captaincy, Shirabu learned the best ways to motivate his ace were pats on the back, hair ruffles, and hugs (he enlisted Kawanishi to provide those). Cuddling is right up his alley. He nuzzles against the back of Shirabu’s neck, cooing contentedly.

If it weren’t for the fact that he’s warm and sleepy, Shirabu would be panicking about how intimate this whole situation feels. Yet he can’t deny how wonderful it is to be held, it’s been months since he was physically affectionate with someone who wasn’t Yahaba. And no matter how wooden he tries to portray himself, he has needs, more than he’d like to admit, and is putty for gentle treatment.

“Goshiki, what time is it,” Shirabu asks through a yawn. He hasn’t checked since he arrived at the party. “My phone is in my pants, too far away.”

Goshiki retracts his arm to dig into his own pockets. “It’s 3:15.”

“3:15?” Shirabu groans into his pillow. In six hours, he’s managed to black out, get lost, and end up in bed with his former teammate.

What a day it’s been, and it’s only three in the fucking afternoon.

⁂

Shirabu jolts awake, heart pounding, a light coat of sweat covering his whole body. Alcohol tends to give him nightmares, and with the amount he drank at the party, it’s a wonder Freddy Krueger didn’t show up.

It’s another small wonder that he doesn’t feel ridiculously hungover. Aside from the remnants of a headache, he’s no worse for the wear. He is in need of some grooming, though. His mouth tastes like he licked a bar and his face and hair are damp and sticky. It would be gross enough if he were alone—but he’s not.

There’s an arm draped over him, belonging to a very faithful friend.

“You stayed,” Shirabu whispers, watching the slow rise and fall of Goshiki’s chest paired with the untroubled expression on his face. As he does, something in his own chest, honeyed and warm, starts to stir.

 _Oh hell no_. He’d better go take that shower now.

When he returns to the bedroom, Goshiki is awake and scrolling on his phone. He was sleeping soundly when Shirabu left, so it’s likely the loss of contact roused him. He looks up when he notices Shirabu’s presence.

“Hey, how are you doing,” he asks.  

“I’m good, even better now that I showered and hydrated,” Shirabu replies. He crosses the room and slides back into bed. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, ah.” Goshiki flushes and looks down at his hands. “The train schedule.”

“What about it?”

“Well, the last train home left at 8:45. That was twenty minutes ago. The next train leaves tomorrow morning.”

Shirabu shakes his head. “It’s no issue. You can stay here.”

“Really?”

Really. Shirabu hasn’t been a saint when it comes to treating his guests politely. But Goshiki isn’t some random stranger in a bar, he isn’t some guy he swiped right on, and he certainly isn’t some plaything Shirabu can ditch when he gets bored. He isn’t sure how he categorizes Goshiki right now, the lines seem blurry, even without them having been intimate.

It’s funny how a simple act of kindness gets his wires so crossed.

“You stayed with me all afternoon when you didn’t have to. How could I kick you out?”

Goshiki knits his brow and wrinkles his nose in the cute way he does when he’s put off. “I wanted to stay,” he corrects.

Color creeps up Shirabu’s neck at his sincerity—Goshiki always says what he means. The dimness of the room is a blessing; without it, he wouldn’t be able to hide his flush. “Ah, let’s find you something to change in to. It couldn’t have been pleasant to sleep in jeans.”

He sets to work digging through his closet to find any clothes that won’t be comically short on Goshiki’s taller frame. In what seems like seconds, Shirabu has dumped half his wardrobe onto the floor, making no move to retrieve any discarded items. From behind him comes a muffled snort.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Goshiki,” he asks pointedly.

“You’re still messy. Just like high school.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. He cares about being clean, not neat. It’s no big tragedy if some of his stuff stays on the floor. Back in the day, the dorm room he shared with Kawanishi may have been _occasionally_ inaccessible due to the amount of clothes, books, and other random shit covering every visible space. Goshiki, an unexpected neat freak, begged to tidy it multiple times.

After finding some passable sweatpants, stealing a box of Kyoutani and Yahaba’s leftovers, and watching some documentary about the animals of the arctic circle, the pair finds themselves right back where they started—in bed. But without the veil of intoxication and drowsiness, it’s a hell of a lot more tense. At least for Shirabu, his companion seems right at home.

“Which animal is your favorite? The foxes are mine. I like the way they jump in the snow,” Goshiki says. He’s been thrumming with energy since the start of the documentary. Watching fluffy animals running around in the snow is clearly one of the many ways to excite him.

Shirabu makes a contemplative sound. “I suppose the arctic hares are nice. They look soft.”

“Ah! I bet they are. They’re so cute,” Goshiki says dreamily. “You remind me of an arctic hare. Or maybe some other kind of rabbit.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Goshiki is the one who’s bright eyed and bushy tailed, not him. To be told otherwise would be an affront.

Goshiki wiggles happily and shrugs, which is neither reassuring, nor an answer.

A few minutes of quiet pass, enough time for the excited energy to settle, and for a charged aura to permeate the room. The silence, comfortable at first, now feels more heavy. With what? Shirabu can’t seem to pin down.

“What do you like to do before bed,” Goshiki asks. He’s bundled himself in all the blankets like a perky burrito.

Shirabu flips to face him. For once, he’s glad Goshiki can’t stand prolonged silence, this one needed to be broken. “I don’t know. I usually watch a show or read a book until I fall asleep. Nothing too interesting.”

“Oh,” Goshiki says. “I like to talk.”

Of course he likes to talk. Though he was always the first one asleep at training camps, he’d use every second of wakefulness to instigate heart-to-hearts with anyone on the team who would participate. Most of the time, Reon was the only obliging victim but, once he graduated, Shirabu grudgingly had to fill that gap. Not even Kawanishi was willing to go there.

“Alright, is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“No, not really.”

A circuit in Shirabu’s brain pops and fizzles. It’s one thing to listen to pillow talk, it’s another to have to initiate it. He bites the inside of his cheek in thought.

“You can’t just ask someone to talk unless you have something in mind,” he says when his mental cache comes up empty on conversation topics. Anything he can think of is too broad (he doesn’t want to get Goshiki _too_ chatty), too personal, or too nuanced to be of interest.

Goshiki pouts. “Well, if you don’t want to talk, we can do something else.”

“Uh.” Shirabu’s mouth goes dry, and his mind goes blank. Nothing Goshiki said was overtly suggestive. There is no reason why Shirabu should feel sprung. Yet here he is. Sue him.

Maybe it’s habit, he’s primed to assume that if someone else is is in his bed, it’s probably _not_ for the purposes of catching up. Or maybe it’s something else, something softer, more unique to Goshiki’s company. Either way, he does his best to hone in on his breathing and think about anything besides his sudden impulse to pounce on his former teammate.

“Shirabu?” He hears his name being spoken but doesn’t react. He’s busied himself by counting the freckles on the bridge of Goshiki’s nose. There’s fifteen that he can see, probably more if he just got a _hair_ closer. Had they always been there?

“Shirabu? Are you ok?” Counting the freckles was a bad idea. Studying his face was a bad idea. He’d never admit this out loud, but Shirabu’s always found Goshiki to be striking in his own way. Now that he’s matured, namely grown out that awful bowl cut, he’s upgraded from striking to handsome. Again, he’d _never_ tell Goshiki that—not with words.

“Shirabu!” _Oh, fuck it_. He leans in and brushes his lips against Goshiki’s. It’s a ghost of a kiss, an invitation. He wishes it were more, but the ball is no longer in his court.

“Whoops,” Shirabu says nonchalantly, peering up at Goshiki through his lashes.

His cheeks are dusted pink, and there’s an exhilarated look on his face, the kind he gets when he slams down an unretrievable spike, right before he lets out a rallying cry. And it’s not just a look, it’s a promise. Shirabu’s heart races in anticipation.

He reaches forward, cradles Shirabu’s face in his hands, and returns the gesture in kind.

Shirabu expects Goshiki to kiss like an excited puppy. He expects the overager zeal Goshiki puts into everything he does. He expects clacking teeth, frantic, uncoordinated touches, and _way_ too much tongue.

What he gets is the refined finesse that can only come from experience and practice. A small part of Shirabu feels a sting of misplaced jealousy at the thought of how many people Goshiki must have been with to get to this point. The rest of him is split between shock and bliss at the revelation. Brushed noses give way to pecks, which give way to hot, open-mouthed kisses.

“My bad,” Goshiki teases as he pulls away, mimicking the same blasé tone Shirabu used just minutes ago.

After Ushijima graduated, a strange thing happened to Goshiki: he changed. Not completely and not in any way that was perceptible to the those who didn’t know him that well, but to those closest to him, specifically Shirabu and Kawanishi, it felt like watching his final metamorphosis.

In his year as captain, Shirabu learned that, at his core, Goshiki was still the ambitious, idealistic, and praise-driven ball of energy he conveyed himself to be. But without the everyday pressure to emulate Ushijima, other, intriguing parts, like a mischievous streak, began to show. It didn’t rear its head all too often, and never to a point of true disobedience, but Goshiki sure could get mouthy. He could even cop an attitude if he was wound up enough—those were the times Shirabu enjoyed the most.

Now is no exception. No sooner can Goshiki flash an impish smile, Shirabu is on him again, crashing their lips together, and throwing all his petty concerns about fooling around with his former teammate to the wind.

And if he finds himself getting hot and bothered faster than usual, he blames it on the fact that they’re both bringing experience to the table and _not_ because there was any latent sexual tension between them.

Nope, none at all.

“What do you want to do,” Goshiki asks breathily, fingers teasing at the hem of Shirabu’s joggers. His hand dips below the waistband to trace the curve of Shirabu’s hip-bones, tauntingly avoiding all the places he’s aching to be touched.

“Anything you can handle.” He flips their positions, stradling and pinning Goshiki to the bed in the process. Shirabu always enjoys the view from the top—and what a view it is. Goshiki looks positively lewd, flushed cheeks, messed up hair, and more than a few blossoms of red and purple on his neck and chest. Even so, it’s his unabashed desire and bravado that Shirabu finds the most alluring.  

He licks his lips, savoring how Goshiki watches his every move. It’s shaping up to be _quite_ the interesting night.

⁂

The downside of every _interesting_ night is that there’s always morning after. Whether he’s puking his guts up, stealthily leaving a stranger’s bedroom, or shooing out a guest who has overstayed their welcome, he can’t escape the inevitable consequences that accompany most of his choices.

And then there’s the granddaddy of them all, the single worst possible outcome: the “morning after talk.” Reserved only for the biggest of mistakes, like failing to clearly delineate the line between sex and intimacy, the “morning after talk” is public enemy number one.

But no matter how badly he wants to protest, Shirabu has to concede that his and Goshiki’s relationship entered new, unexpected territory. Which means that they have a decision to make: accept the changes and move forward together or go back to the way things were before and hope for the best.  

The “they” in this situation is, of course, an illusion. Shirabu already made _his_ choice. He decided at five a.m. when Goshiki was fast asleep, head tucked against Shirabu’s chest, hands gripping his sleeping shirt like he might float away if he didn’t hold tight.

“You know we can’t do this again.” Shirabu betrays the solemnity of his words by resting his forehead against Goshiki’s. There’s desperation to the gesture, like his vulnerable bits are begging to be acknowledged.

“Why?” Goshiki’s voice quivers with worry. He’s a pleaser; he’s scared that he’s let Shirabu down. “Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s not you. I can’t give you a good reason. You just have to promise me that you understand.” It’s no lie. The reason that he can’t be with Goshiki again is the same reason that he felt warmth when he looked into his expressive eyes, or mapped the faded freckles on his nose, or curled into him in the small hours of the night, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

It’s flawed logic, refusing to see someone because you _like_ them, but Shirabu is his own worst enemy when it comes to intimacy. He’ll tear himself apart before he allows himself to indulge in the things he wants.

Besides, it’s not like they’ll have to be around each other any time soon. Shirabu can wait until whatever errant affection he’s contracted dissipates before seeing Goshiki again. It’s the most humane thing to do; he’s too purehearted to get dragged into Shirabu’s hot-and-cold romantic habits.

“Damnit! Can you just promise me,” he insists.

Goshiki’s tilts his head, looking pensive. He’s scrutinizing Shirabu, assessing the veracity of his words. Apparently, he finds them to be flimsy, because his verbal confirmation is overpowered by a glimmer of defiance and persistence in his eyes.

Shirabu works hard, but Goshiki works harder. If he’s truly interested, he won’t let Shirabu go without a fight.

And the prospect of being fought for? Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.

May the best man win.

⁂⁂⁂

Promises are only as worthy as they are kept. As a generally ethical human being, Shirabu knows that. But, in his defense, the universe is _really_ testing him. He should have had the foresight to see this coming.

Every year, at the beginning of fall, his university hosts a casual tournament with some of the other schools in the immediate radius. In the past two years, Goshiki’s university had fallen out of reach to get pulled in. This year, however, the team agreed to make the (in reality, not that far) trip into Tokyo to participate in match play.

Now he’s mere inches from Goshiki, covered in sweat, breathing labored, separated only by a flimsy net. It might as well be an ocean of distance, but Shirabu is definitely in the mood to take a swim.

At least the scorching eye contact ended after the first set. By the start of the second, Goshiki’s eagerness to do right by his team narrowed his focus to the appropriate scope: volleyball. Shirabu isn’t following suit. No matter how many times he employs his patented face slap, he’s a distractible kitten. Any infinitesimal movement from the wing spiker sends his eyes darting over, and over, and over.  

It’s almost perverse how badly this is going for him. On one hand, he hasn’t fucked up a set yet; Yahaba would be on the court if he had. On the other, he’s spent more time memorializing the way Goshiki’s thighs flex right before he jumps for a spike; the way he lifts his shirt ever-so-slightly to wipe off his brow; and the way he peeks his tongue out when he’s extra focused, than he has on the match itself.

If someone told him five years ago that he’d be objectifying Goshiki, Shirabu would have slapped them senseless. Right now, any thought of shame is silenced by louder, more interesting impulses.

“I see what you’re doing, and you better stop, you freak.” Yahaba yanks him away during the long break between the second and third set. It’s obvious this scolding has been building from point one. “If you don’t quit with the staring, I’ll tell Coach that you are playing on a sprained finger, and you’ll be benched faster than you can say—are you even listening to me?”

While Yahaba chatters, Shirabu’s attention drifts over to where Goshiki is re-tying his hair back. Pieces have been coming loose since his first spike; it was due to be adjusted. Watching his fingers rake through his hair is way more interesting than Yahaba’s bitching.

“Shirabu, focus,” Yahaba growls. He pinches Shirabu’s face, forcing him to break away from his observation. “Look, I appreciate that you have a crush. I’m _happy_ to see you getting back out there after five months of locking yourself away. But can you do it somewhere, I don’t know, else?”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. I’m simply sizing up my opponent,” Shirabu says cooly, taking a long sip from his water bottle. “If you spent more time doing that and less time nagging, you might find yourself on the court a little more often.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst. Get hit in the face for all I care.”

Shirabu sticks his tongue out, and Yahaba claps him on the back as he returns to the court. “Pep-talks” like this are all too common for them. No one on the team so much as bats an eye anymore.

The final set is grueling, with both teams fighting hard but, in the end, Goshiki’s team pulls ahead to clinch the victory. Shirabu has to admit they’re a force to be reckoned with, and it’s in no small part thanks to his powerhouse skills in their starting lineup. He feels lucky that they’re not in the same district for actual tournament purposes, or they’d surely be bitter rivals.

“Good game,” Shirabu says as they shake hands below the net.

“It was nice—” Goshiki is cut off by the movement of the line.

Shirabu will be damned if those are the only words they exchange today. He’s spent well over two hours shamelessly eyeballing Goshiki. He can admit that. And because he can admit that, it also means he can’t just watch him waltz away on the bus. They need to talk, or something. Shirabu would prefer the _something_ , but he’s flexible.

It would be rude and inappropriate to barge in on a team stretches to demand Goshiki’s attention, so he opts for a more discreet option.

 **[Shirabu 4:46]:** Come to the locker room in 15.

 **[Shirabu 4:46]:** Don’t worry about your bus. I’ll make sure you get home, or you can stay over.

He waits patiently for Goshki to return to his sports bag and check his phone, watching his every move like a hawk. He’s pleased when it appears that he’s smiling at his messages and further vindicated when he receives an “ _ok, see you soon :)”_ text in response.

Ignoring the excited flutters in his stomach, Shirabu holds it together as the team files out of the gym to retrieve their things. He mentally checks off each teammate until they’ve all left, feeling proud that his estimate was spot on; about ten minutes have passed since his first message. Now, all he has to do is head back to the locker room and reap his reward—fortune favors the bold, and what not.

As predicted (or meticulously planned), the locker room is empty when Shirabu arrives. He considers washing some of the sweat off his face but is cut off by the sound of the door opening.

“Shirabu?”

“Lock the door behind you, please.”

Goshiki appears from the entryway, looking concerned. “Are you sure I should do that? What if someone needs to—”

“Lock the door.” Shirabu’s voice comes out darker and more commanding than he’d hoped, and it shows on Goshiki’s startled face.

Sighing, Shirabu moves to stand in front of him. He tentatively reaches forward, running his hands up and down Goshiki’s arms in soothing motions. “I’ve been watching my team. Everyone who left stuff here has come to pick it up. It’s unlikely anyone will be back.”

A little bit of gentle rubbing subdues any qualms Goshiki had about locking the door, but when he returns, he passes up Shirabu to sit on one of the metal benches.

His nerves spike as he contemplates the possibility that he and Goshiki are on different wavelengths. They did _technically_ agree to not to hook up again, but that was before Shirabu realized they’d have to see each other so soon. He just hopes that Goshiki, despite his idealism and character, isn’t _too_ much of a stickler for promises.

He decides to test the waters with something innocuous.

“Hi there.” Shirabu tucks a longer piece of bangs behind his ear. He considers sitting on the bench, then decides it might be better to start by keeping his distance. “You played very well today. You’ve improved so much, it’s amazing.”

“I have?” There’s an innocence to Goshiki’s tone, like he’s blissfully unaware of the fact. After four years, he continues to devour praise like a divine offering. Even the small compliment conjures fire in his eyes.

Shirabu knows better than to assume that the heat is ambition alone. It’s that—and something far more tempting to stoke. Which means it’s safe to up the ante.

“You have. Your team is _quite_ lucky to have you.” He snakes his arms around Goshiki’s neck and feels arms around his waist in return, pulling him onto his lap. The new proximity takes some adjustment; Shirabu’s knees dig uncomfortably into the metal of the bench and he becomes keenly aware of the fact that they’re both in their sweaty game uniforms.

He’d feel gross and self-conscious but for Goshiki staring up at him, eyes wide and expectant, urging, no, begging him to continue. His hands slide to cup Shirabu’s ass, and he rolls their hips together, giving him a small taste of the effect his paying tribute is already having.

Shirabu smirks. Goshiki being aroused by praise? _Groundbreaking_.

Still, his breath hitches at the contact, and he does everything he can to keep himself composed. If he lets go now, this elegantly crafted encounter goes to shit. He needs to stay in the moment, no matter how much the simmer low in his gut urges him to sink to his knees and worship Goshiki.

“And you know what else?” Shirabu cocks his head, smiling sweetly. It’s impossible _not_ to smile at the look of wonder and want on Goshiki’s face. Like Shirabu’s approval is the golden ticket, like there’s not a single thing else in the world that he could want more than this. His rapture is enough to rekindle the warmth from their first night together, stronger this time and closer to the surface.

“Mmm, what else,” Goshiki breathes, rocking against him once more.

Shirabu’s next move will be his last. He’s well aware he’s sprinting down the primrose path, but what fun is life if you’re not living with risk? So he leans in, feeling Goshiki tense under him, grip tightening further in anticipation. It’s emboldening to see how caught up in the moment he is, too.

“ _I’m_ lucky to have you.” Shirabu purrs, running his tongue along the shell of Goshiki’s ear. He shivers. There’s no going back now.

“Little Miracle Boy.”

What happens next might as well be dubbed “the slam heard around the world,” because Shirabu is certain everyone in a five-mile radius heard him get shoved up against the lockers with sudden and frightening force.

Except it’s not frightening, it’s fucking hot. So hot that the adrenaline is almost enough to get Shirabu off right then and there. He knew damn well that the speech and moniker would rev Goshiki up, but he couldn’t even begin to fathom the full extent of the effect it would have. It makes Shirabu want to rile him even more, to see what his boundaries are—and push past them together.

Goshiki has other concerns.

“Did I hurt you,” he asks. His worried tone juxtaposes against his heavy breathing and blown out pupils. His hand trembles where it’s curled around Shirabu’s left thigh. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t— It’s just—”

“You’re fine. I’m fine. I _loved_ it,” Shirabu pants, trying to keep himself in check. He paws at the front of Goshiki’s jersey for the sake of having _something_ to quell the force of his craving. “And look, you kept me safe.” He points to where Goshiki’s other hand cradles the back of his head, protecting it from the impact.

Leave it to Goshiki to make sure a move of passion doesn’t end in a concussion.

“Are you sure? It sounded painful.”

Shirabu exhales sharply. He appreciates the concern, it’s nice to be cared for, but right now, there are more pressing priorities. Like the fact that being manhandled has him completely and irrevocably hard. At this point, the only acceptable resolution to this situation is getting fucked senseless against the lockers.

But first things first.

“Relax, I’m enjoying this.” Shirabu gently guides Goshiki’s hand up his thigh, showing him precisely how _enjoyable_ the experience has been so far. This time, instead of stifling the needy whine that the contact inspires, he tosses his head back, letting it echo through the locker room.

As expected, the concern melts off Goshiki’s face at the display, replaced by an expression of unfettered desire. He leans in, eyes lidded, hovering teasingly out of kissing range, back to his usual (frustrating) antics.

“That’s better. I want you to enjoy yourself, too.” Shirabu smiles, catching his bottom lip between his teeth in a way he hopes reads as sensual—and not pathetically worked up. He slides his hand up from its perch on Goshiki’s shoulder to gently thread through his hair. “Now, where were we?”

⁂

“Did you bring a change of clothes?” Shirabu tries his damndest to avoid showering in the locker room, but even after an attempted clean-up, he feels insufferably sticky and gross.

Goshiki pops out from out behind the partition between the changing room and sink area. “Yeah, in my sports bag.” He pauses, twisting and tapping his index fingers together like a bashful child. “Actually, I brought everything I need to stay through the weekend. You know, just in case.”

Oh? So Shirabu wasn’t mistaken about Goshiki’s total disregard for their “this can’t happen again” discussion. He can’t fault him, though. His unrelenting determination is quite the turn on.

And Shirabu isn’t _adverse_ to the idea of an extended sleepover. Perhaps he’s finally gone soft but waking up next to Goshiki wasn’t a cataclysmic event. In fact, Shirabu was surprised to find that life’s not-so-fun moments (like actually getting out of bed) happen to be more pleasant with an upbeat companion.

He hopes that principle extends to taking this questionable locker room shower.

“Come on then. Let’s clean up.”

“Are you sure you want to do that here? Your apartment is less than a ten minute walk away,” Goshiki asks in a tone that sounds more akin to begging.

“I’m covered in sweat, and I’m fairly certain I still have both your and my cum on me. So you’ll forgive me if there’s a sense of urgency here.”

“I still think you’d rather go home and take a bath.” Shirabu would be annoyed at Goshiki’s persistence if he wasn’t one hundred percent correct. He tends to forget how sharp Goshiki’s memory is. Anything said or done around him can and will be archived for future use. Including Shirabu’s long held preference for soaks over showers.

“Fine,” Shirabu concedes. A bath does sound nice. “But let’s get a move on.”

“I’ll get the water running as soon as we get home!”

Shirabu rolls his eyes at the way Goshiki refers to his apartment as “home.” He’s been there once, for less than twenty-four hours. Typical Goshiki, putting the cart before the horse.

Fifteen minutes later, none of that matters, because Shirabu is blissed out, nestled comfortably between Goshiki’s legs. They’re resting in silence, broken only by the white noise of the bathroom fan and the occasional drip from the faucet. All the while, Goshiki massages Shirabu’s shoulders, neck, and back, sometimes stopping to brush his lips against his wet hair, or nuzzle against his cheek. It’s intimate as hell, and not just because they’re naked and pressed against each other. Despite this, Shirabu can’t help but melt into Goshiki’s touch, ignoring the fact that the alarm bells in his head are blaring.

He’s getting close, too close.

“Can I stay,” Goshiki asks, interrupting Shirabu’s dueling thoughts.

“Sure, whatever.” There’s no strong impetus to kick him out, and he did promise to either secure a ride home, or allow Goshiki to stay over.

Shirabu feels a soft peck to the back of his head, as Goshiki tightens his arms around him. The shift in position sloshes some water over the rim of the tub. He can be angry about that later.

“Are you going to make me promise that we can’t do this again?” Goshiki is right up against Shirabu’s ear as he speaks: calm, low, and completely earnest. It’s the kind of dangerous voice that could tempt Shirabu into just about anything—and he’d let it.

But the moment he loses complete control, he’s done for, and he refuses to surrender himself to _Goshiki_ of all people, at least not tonight. This battle is far from over.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Shirabu says cooly. He stands and steps out of the bath, leaving Goshiki alone in the lukewarm water. “That will depend entirely on you.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for taking the time to read chapter one of this monster of a fic, and I do hope it was at least a mildly entertaining part of your day or night.
> 
> kudos and comments are never expected but always kindly appreciated! I'd love to hear what you think so far.


	2. Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirabu doesn't shine. Shirabu is sea glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I just wanted to give a big thank you to everyone who has given this story a chance! Writing a new pair was kind of rough (as expected), but I had a lot of fun doing it. I find it interesting to explore different character compatibilities/how characters grow with and from different partners.
> 
> I should have also probably mentioned that none of my stuff is ever beta'd, so please forgive grammar mistakes!

Shirabu was foolish to think that he could ever create a test that Goshiki wouldn’t pass. So when he inevitably manages to fulfill whatever nebulous conditions Shirabu was looking for, there’s no real excuse for their meetups not to continue. 

After a couple weeks, the two implicitly settle into a routine: Goshiki takes the late afternoon train on Friday, arriving just in time for Shirabu to finish with afternoon practice. They spend the weekend together eating, watching movies, occasionally doing homework, and, for the sake of brevity, fucking. When Sunday rolls around, he leaves on the noon train, and it’s back to another week of life on the grind .

It’s the epitome of a perfect arrangement. Shirabu gets all of the perks of being in a relationship without  _ actually _ having to commit to anything. Goshiki seems content, too. He’s certainly quite eager to spoil Shirabu, both in and out of the bedroom. And sure, maybe he’s never directly asked Goshiki how he feels about the matter, but his consistent enthusiasm has to count for something, right?

Right.

Shirabu doesn’t need to go sticking his nose anywhere it doesn’t belong, or anywhere that might lead to a “what are we doing” conversation.

Everything is peachy keen, until one Friday morning, Goshiki blows their schedule to shit.

**[Goshiki 8:02]:** Good morning :) I hope you slept well.

**[Goshiki 8:03]:** I won’t be able to come out this weekend :| I have some lab hours I have to make-up.

Shirabu pouts, and his first instinct is to send some querulous text to encourage his compliance. After the initial petulance passes, he forces himself to recognize and accept that Goshiki, like him, is an excellent student. He can’t in good conscious try to interfere with that.  

**_[Shirabu 8:15]_ ** _ : That sucks. I was looking forward to seeing you. _

Nope, too personal. He deletes the second sentence, replacing it with some mundane question about Goshiki’s other weekend plans. After sending the text, he turns his phone on silent and stuffs it under a pillow. Maybe this change of plans is a blessing in disguise, having an extra Friday gives him the opportunity to catch up on his studies. It’s not that he’s fallen behind per se —Shirabu  _ never _ falls behind—but spending his weekends with Goshiki has stalled his usual five-day lead on assignments.

Except he doesn’t do shit.

At first, he tries his best to be willfully ignorant of his growing malcontent, but when reading three pages takes almost an hour, he concedes that ignorance isn’t necessarily bliss. Lo and behold, the solution to his dilemma is quite simple: if he’s upset that Goshiki can’t come out, then he should be an adult and go visit him.

His rational brain understands that this is the fair thing to do. Goshiki has shouldered the time and expense of travel every weekend; the least Shirabu can do is return the favor. So he makes what seems like a solid plan. He’ll leave on the first train he can catch after volleyball practice, slating his arrival right around 6:00. It’s the perfect time to grab some dinner and hunker down for the night.

And he’ll do it all without giving Goshiki any notice.  _ Because surprises are fun _ , Shirabu thinks. There’s also the fact that documenting the idea in a text makes everything seem too...real. It’s not every day that he’s willing to put this level of effort into someone he’s not dating. Hell, it’s not every day that Shirabu is willing to put this level of effort into someone he  _ is  _ dating.

Afternoon practice flies by, and soon Shirabu finds himself sprinting on sore legs to the train station. He slides through the last close of the doors and is lucky to find himself a window seat. It’s only after he’s settled in and stashed his overnight bag that he composes a quick and cryptic message to Goshiki.

**[Shirabu 5:05]:** Your station, arriving at 6:10.

As the train lurches forward, the full impact of his rash decision swirls sourly in his stomach. He never stopped to consider whether Goshiki actually wanted to see him at all. It’s possible that the “make up lab” was an excuse to avoid this weekend’s visit. Maybe Goshiki has other plans, or worse, maybe he’s sick of Shirabu’s company, or, worst of all, maybe he met someone new and is spending the weekend with  _ them _ .

That, Shirabu takes a deep, cleansing breath, or his negativity and fundamental distrust of others are getting the best of him again. He’s spent considerable time with Goshiki; it should come as no shock that his defenses against intimacy are working to sabotage the ir “relationship” from the inside out.

Groaning, he pops in some headphones and leans against the window for a nap. For better or worse, the situation is out of his control. The train went express two stops ago, and he’d rather face his fears than jump out of a bullet train.  If only he had taken one of the slower lines…

Some time later, he’s awakened by a tinny voice announcing the train’s arrival at its last stop and that all passengers must disembark. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he has a split-second of calm before he’s drowning in dread all over again. As the train grinds to a halt, he’s managed to regain some semblance of control and steel himself for the sight of an empty platform—which is why it’s a confusing moment when the doors open, and he collides head-on with another body.

_ What kind of fucking idiot stands so close to an opening door,  _ he wonders.

“Surprise!”

Ah, his idiot.

He looks up to see Goshiki waiting with outstretched arms. It’s unclear whether he’s seeking an hug or punctuating his exclamation. Shirabu decides to assume the latter, even if he’s itching to rush into his waiting embrace.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that, Goshiki,” he asks.

“Maybe. Let’s just say we surprised each other!” Goshiki closes the gap and pulls Shirabu against him in a tight hug. Even though they’re in public, Shirabu grants him the pleasure of one, chaste kiss. “I’m happy you came,” Goshiki murmurs.

_ I’m happy I came, too _ , Shirabu tries to respond. But the universe has other ideas; his words are lost as soon as they’re spoken, swallowed into the deafening roar of the retreating train.

Some things are for the best.

⁂

“This is your room? It’s huge for a dorm,” Shirabu says as soon as he enters Goshiki’s massive suite. “Shit, you even have your own bathroom in here.”

Goshiki runs a hand on his neck; he’s bashful, even though he knows he’s worked hard for every privilege he’s earned. “The university treats athletes really well.”

“They sure do. The shitheads in administration put Yahaba and I in a fucking breadbox our first year. It was inhumane.” Shirabu continues to explore the room. It’s tidy and organized like his dorm in high school, and his design choices are pretty much the same. The only decorations in the room are is some photos, posters of professional volleyball players, and, of note, both his number “8” and number “1” jerseys from Shiratorizawa. Shirabu isn’t sure how he managed to keep both, but if anyone could bat his eyelashes and get his way, it’s Goshiki.

“What’s this,” Shirabu asks. He’s migrated to the bed, attracted by both the plush purple duvet and the strange collection of multi-colored rocks arranged on the windowsill. “I didn’t know you collected rocks.”

Goshiki joins him, reaching out to grab a jagged shard of ruby-red rock. “Oh, that? It’s sea glass, not a rock.”  

“Sea glass, hm?” Shirabu assumed that sea glass looked more like, at the risk of sounding trite, glass. The object he’s holding sure does look like a rock. It’s dull green in color and completely opaque, a far cry from the delicate translucence of actual glass. “Is everything up here sea glass?”

“Yep,” Goshiki says proudly. “That jade-colored one you’re holding is really rare.”

“I see.” Shirabu places the “jade” sea glass back on the windowsill. He’s got delicate setter hands, but he doesn’t want to be responsible for somehow marring one of Goshiki’s prized possessions. “They’re interesting. Where did you pick these up?”

Goshiki twirls the red glass around in his palm as he speaks. “I grew up on the coast, and my parents and I used to go to the beach and collect sea glass. I have a shell collection, too. But I think sea glass is prettier.”

Shirabu wrinkles his nose. “You really think so?” He’s no expert on beach finds (having never been to the ocean), but shells, with their intricate patterns and smooth, glossy exteriors seem much more aesthetically pleasing.

“Well.” Goshiki starts. He’s speaking with purpose, like he’s about to impart the wisdom of the ages. It’s not often that Shirabu gets to see him look so serious. “Sea glass is garbage transformed into treasure. The process takes a long time, but I think there’s something special about it, spending years traveling the ocean before washing up on the shore for someone to enjoy.”

“That seems lonely,” Shirabu says, before he can stop himself.

Goshiki taps his chin in contemplation. “The journey might be, but it’s all worth it in the end. Being treasured is its own reward.”  

_ Being treasured is its own reward _ .  Though he’s never been one for abstraction, the phrase resonates with him, in a way he can’t fully articulate or understand. It leaves him with a strange feeling of melancholy and longing. He wants .  It’s not clear to him  _ what _ he wants but there’s a hollow spot in his heart, aching for something he doesn’t have.

It’s also not clear how or when this turned from a lesson about sea glass to a metaphor for life. Shirabu came here for a relaxing weekend, not to be head fucked in the first hour. They need to drop the subject.

“Ah, can we maybe go get dinner?”

Goshiki’s face shifts from contemplative to concerned. “Of course! I’m so sorry, I should have offered earlier. You must be starving from practice!”

“Yeah, I am,” Shirabu lies. In reality, he wants to be as far away from the sea glass—and this conversation—as possible.

⁂

It’s a common misconception that anyone actually gave a shit about the Shiratorizawa Volleyball Club outside of matches. Sure, when they were playing, you could bet your bottom dollar that the cheering section would be packed to the brim, poised and primed to give the team all the motivation a well-endowed school could drum up.

But the second that they traded their volleyball uniforms for their class uniforms, the magic vanished. The only remnants of their evanescent stardom were the chorus of “congratulations” after a big victory, occasional leniency from teachers, and a ridiculous amount of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.

Shirabu thinks about this now because, as they walk to the student union, it becomes annoyingly obvious that people give a shit about Goshiki here —a lot of shits. What should be a five minute walk turns into a fifteen minute meet-and-greet with half the student body. By the time they reach the cafe, Shirabu has met Goshiki’s next door neighbor, one of his  professors, three classmates from his biochem lab, and the setter and libero of the women’s volleyball team , all of whom seem genuinely excited to see him.

“Sorry about that,” Goshiki says as he holds the door open, gesturing for Shirabu to enter first. “I didn’t expect to see so many people, but I didn’t want to shrug anyone off.”

“You’re quite the Mr. Congeniality here, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

“I think it’s great,” Shirabu says sincerely. “It’s nice to see you so well loved. You deserve it.”

Truth be told, Goshiki wasn’t the most popular guy in high school. His ebullience was...off-putting to many of his classmates, so he relied heavily on the volleyball club for companionship. And while the bonds he shared with his teammates were genuine and deep, Shirabu always knew there was a part of Goshiki that yearned to be accepted by his peers. It’s satisfying to know that it’s happening for him now.

He blushes, toying with a lock of his hair. “You deserve it, too —ah, to be loved, that is.”

Shirabu’s mouth drops open. “Goshiki, what the hell! You can’t just go saying things like that,” he stutters, feeling far too hot. Even casual use of the “L-word” is too much for his fragile constitution.

“Sorry.” Goshiki shrinks into himself at the scolding. “I thought you’d take that as a compliment.”

_ The poor thing, he knows not what he does _ , Shirabu muses. But, if Goshiki is in an amorous mood, he might as well put that energy to good use.

“How about this. Let’s eat quickly, and then we can go back to your room — ” Shirabu says, not-so-discreetly running a hand along the small of Goshiki’s back. “And you can give me  _ everything _ you think I  deserve.”

Goshiki’s eyes widen, and he straightens up, back to his usual spirited self. “Yes please!”

⁂

“Can I ask you something?”

Shirabu scoots out from where he was tucked under Goshiki’s arm and props himself up on his elbow. He stopped trying to fight pillow talk a long time ago. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Maybe this is none of my business.” Goshiki makes no motion to flip off his back, his eyes remain trained at the ceiling. “But what happened between you and Semi?”

“Why are you asking,” Shirabu snaps. Semi and his relationship has always been on a need-to-know basis. If Yahaba had to pull teeth to get him to open up, Goshiki certainly has no claim to their story.

“I just want to know more about you. You’re really secretive about your life, and Semi is the only other person you’ve openly dated,” Goshiki explains. His voice is soft, but unapologetic. It’s clear he feels entitled to an answer.

And maybe he is. He’s been sticking his dick in Shirabu for what? Almost two months now? They’ve been far more intimate than this silly little question.

“Alright,” Shirabu says. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything you’re willing to tell me.”

So Shirabu tells it all, from the moment Semi carried his bags from the sidewalk to his dorm on move-in day, to their last night of peace, before everything crumbled at their feet. All the while, Goshiki listens attentively, and surprisingly, quietly, only chiming in with periodic noises of acknowledgement and understanding.

“A lot of people don’t realize, we only dated for three, three-and-a-half months.” Shirabu rests against the pillow, too tired to keep himself propped up any longer. “It seemed much longer in the moment.”

“Why did you break up?”

“We were too similar,” Shirabu replies without hesitation. “There wasn’t a crucible in the world that could handle our energy.”

It’s no exaggeration. Their relationship had the intensity of brilliant star. At their best, they were fiery and passionate. They provoked each other, challenged each other, and always kept each other on their toes. But stars that burn bright, burn fast and collapse into black holes. And it didn’t take long for Shirabu and Semi to collapse into each other’s darkness.

Semi would snap, and Shirabu would fight back, rather than trying to diffuse. Shirabu would brood, and Semi would join him, rather than try to uplift. Their fights were terrifying, their sex was enviable, and their amiability was so fragile, it could combust at any time. It’s a red flag when people’s first response to your relationship is  _ “how?” _ Fortunately, they recognized early on that despite their magnet-pull attraction, their situation was not sustainable, and their break-up was mutual and amicable.

Of course, that didn’t stop Shirabu from avoiding Semi for five months. He needed to spend some time unpacking and internalizing what he learned from their brief stint in romance. It was the best exercise in self-discovery he had in years. The break also allowed them to salvage their friendship. Since the reunion, he’d met up with Semi a few times for coffee, and while things weren’t completely back to normal, they were off to a good start.

“I’ve come to realize that I would do best with someone different than me,” Shirabu adds.

He should have anticipated Goshiki would perk up at that. “Are we different, Shirabu?”

_ Obviously _ . No person who knows both of them could answer that in the negative. But that’s not what Goshiki is asking. He wants to know if Shirabu sees them as compatible, if he can see a future for them.

Shirabu sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s been an open book for the last hour, why stop now? “Yes, very.”

Goshiki reaches out to interlace their fingers and they lay facing each other, clasping hands. It’s a nice reprieve from the heavier conversation, until Shirabu’s impudent brain comes up with a way to fuck everything up.

“Can I ask  _ you _ something now?”

“Of course,” Goshiki says eagerly.

“What did you mean when you said ‘only other person you’ve dated openly.’” Shirabu treads lightly, careful to keep any hint of accusation from his voice. He’s not upset, merely trying to understand. “Semi is the only person I’ve been in a relationship with.”

Goshiki narrows his eyes, and his brow furrows. “What about us?”

Shirabu’s gut clenches. Well, this isn’t good.

“What about us, Goshiki?”  _ Fuck _ . He really needs to work on that knee-jerk callousness.

Goshiki’s bewildered look digs the knife deeper. His eyes are wide and worried like a frightened deer, but instead of headlights, he’s staring into the realization that the relationship he thought he was in wasn’t a relationship at all.

“You’ve never mentioned anything about wanting a relationship.”  _ That’s it, deflect the blame _ .  _ Win on a technicality _ . “I assumed you were fine being, I don’t know, friends with benefits.”

“Friends with benefits…” Goshiki speaks slowly, deliberately, like it’s the first time he’s heard those words. Knowing him, it very well could be.

Shirabu doesn’t respond, allowing him the time and space Goshiki needs to process this revelation. There was a more polite and mature way of doing this, he’s certain of it. But Shirabu has never been known to take the high road, or the easy road, or any road that doesn’t entail each party taking some emotional damage.  _ This _ is why he was so hesitant to get involved with Goshiki in the first place.

“We can talk about this more, if you want,” he offers.

“I’m kind of tired.” Goshiki forces a yawn. “Maybe another time?” He scoots forward to rub their foreheads together, like he always does before bed, but instead of tender, the movement is jerky and rushed, like he’s going through the motions. “I’m still glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” Shirabu says. This time, the universe doesn’t try to intercept his words. It doesn’t need to.

The damage is done. They have no value anyway.

⁂

Shirabu doesn’t sleep. How can he when he’s fucked up so royally? His mind reels, replaying the ill-handled conversation, the way Goshiki’s eyes lost their spark in an instant, the way he fumbled to maintain some semblance of normalcy, the way he rolled onto his side, and hasn’t turned back since. Shirabu isn’t even sure if and when he went to sleep, all he knows is that he’s been shut out. By Goshiki. The most emotionally open person he knows.

Damn Goshiki for shutting him out. They needed to talk and he copped out of the conversation. Granted, maybe he had been somewhat harsh and heavy-handed with the whole relationship thing, but it was also extremely presumptuous to slap a label on them without so much as asking. Not that Shirabu would have said “yes” to a relationship either way...or maybe he would have. Goshiki has him in such a bind; he isn’t sure what to think anymore.

By three a.m., he’s a zombie. Hours of tossing and turning and anger and shame have him so tortured, all he can do is lay on his back and stare at the ceiling, trapped in the liminal space between consciousness and dreams.

Then, something in his peripheral catches his attention.

It’s the sea glass, illuminated by the ray of moonlight streaming through the window. Entranced, Shirabu rises to his knees to get a better look. Careful not to shake the bed, he reaches forward and picks up the red glass Goshiki was holding earlier. The visage is smooth but the edges retain a hint sharpness to them, even the merciless pounding of the tides couldn’t beat all of the jagged points.

Sea glass in hand, he lays back down, twirling the glass over and over in his palm like he saw Goshiki do earlier. It’s relaxing for a while, but as he watches the shard flipping between his fingers, something inside him stirs to life — it’s that strange longing feeling from earlier.

In his weary haze, Shirabu imagines himself as sea glass, rolling with the waves in some unknown ocean. Similar to this red glass, he had a lot of sharp edges that needed smoothing before anyone could safely handle him. But as he weathered life’s storms and calms, he became more confident, no longer needing the rough exterior he used as a means to keep the world at arm’s distance.

Even so, Shirabu is dull; he does not shine like the brilliant people he surrounds himself with. But just as sea glass is valuable to the right collector, he holds out hope that he can be treasured by the right person.

The question is: when did he stray so far from the shore?

⁂

“So I’ll see you next weekend,” Shirabu asks. They’re standing at the entrance to the train station, off to the side of the escalators down to the tracks. It’s not their typical parting spot — they usually walk each other to the turnstyle — but it’s not their typical parting, either.

When Goshiki woke up, it was painfully obvious that he was still upset over their disastrous conversation and, at the risk of straining things further, Shirabu made the executive decision to cut his losses and leave. He’s not too concerned for the big picture, though. Goshiki has never been one to hold grudges, and he doubts that’s going to change now.

They just need a little space, that’s all.

“No,” Goshiki replies firmly.

Shirabu blinks.

“Ah, ok. Do you need some time?” He didn’t expect _ that _ response, but he can respect that Goshiki might need a break to cool down. “We can give it a few weeks if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want time.” Goshiki’s gaze is sharp and determined. “I want a date.”

Shirabu just about laughs out loud. Goshiki is audacious by nature but this? This is crossing a line. “Excuse me?”

“I’d like you to try going on an actual date with me.”

“And if I say no?”

Goshiki shoulders sag, deflated. It’s becoming clear this conversation is not going the way he’d hoped. “Then I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to keep seeing each other like we have.” 

“You can’t give someone an ultimatum like that! It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair for either of us to stay in a situation where we’re not on the same page.”

“It’s fair for me,” Shirabu spits, crossing his arms over his chest. He wishes the train would come; he’s starting to feel pretty damn cornered. And you can’t blame someone for getting aggressive when their back is against the wall. “I’m not the one who caught feelings.”

“That’s very selfish of you to say.” Goshiki’s voice is calm, seemingly unfazed by Shirabu’s growing tantrum. “But I know that’s not how you really feel.

“Right. Like you  _ knew  _ that we were in a relationship? I don’t think you’re as astute as you —”

Goshiki steps forward and wraps Shirabu in an embrace, effectively shutting him up. It’s a risky move, like petting a snarling animal, but the payoff is great. Shirabu relaxes instantly, pressing his face against Goshiki’s shoulder with a defeated huff. What most don’t realize, or even suspect, is that his lashing out is often a sign of fear or vulnerability, rather than an actual inclination to fight.

“I didn’t mean to make you angry.” Goshiki pulls back, earning a soft whimper from Shirabu. “Please, just give it some thought.”

It’s moments like this force him to accept the strength of Goshiki’s character: his patience, his strength, and his unwavering kindness. In the five years Shirabu has known him, he’s watched him grow into a man of principle, worthy of respect.

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” Shirabu concedes.

He wishes he could say the same about himself.

⁂⁂⁂

Shirabu has played the long game before, hell, he’d even go so far as to consider himself an MVP of the long game. But Goshiki is giving him a run for his money.

It’s been three weeks since the “ultimatum” at the train station. Three weeks of no “good morning” and “good night” texts. Three weeks of no random calls, just to check in. Three weeks of not getting the physical attention he craves. Three weeks without the company of someone who, in some way or another, has managed to weave his way into the fabric of his life.

To go from seeing Goshiki like clockwork to not hearing from him at all? Shirabu shouldn’t be so surprised at the noticeable cold spot left in his absence. Goshiki is radiant, his presence enveloping and pleasant, like basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. Without him around, a chill haunts Shirabu like a ghost, reminding him of everything he could have if he wasn’t so damn stubborn.

And he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“I haven’t seen Goshiki in a while,” Yahaba says. He’s sitting on the ground by the TV table, filing his nails. Saturday nights are manicure nights for the Yahaba-Shirabu household. As setters, they know they need to take care of their most precious instrument. “Did you two break up?”

Shirabu flits his eyes up from where he’s scrolling around on his phone, only half-heartedly participating in the self-care. “We weren’t dating,” he says icily.

Yahaba’s filing slows to a stop, and he cocks an eyebrow. “Already laying on the bullshit? You  _ know _ you’re not as mysterious as you used to be.” He crawls over so that he can force himself into Shirabu’s personal space. “You’re so transparent now, or maybe I can read you like an open book,” Yahaba says, reaching out a finger to poke his cheek teasingly.

Shirabu snaps at it, and Yahaba yelps in surprise. He really shouldn’t expect anything less from the provocation. Maybe he deserves to lose a finger, since he can’t seem to refrain from poking it, and other things, where they don’t belong.

“God, ok. Point taken,” Yahaba says, curling his hand around the almost bit off digit. “Sounds like Goshiki might be a bit of a sore spot for you.”

Typical. Yahaba can’t help but stir the pot — even when he’s not trying. Usually Shirabu would have more spark to fight back but, in honesty, this Goshiki business has put him in a funk. Not that Yahaba has to know.

“He’s not a sore spot. You’re just being annoying.”

“Sure, sure,” Yahaba waves his hand in surrender. “Sorry I brought it up.”

Shirabu narrows his eyes. There’s something fishy about this apology. When Yahaba has a hunch, he’s like a dog with a bone—he won’t so easily be separated from it. Still, he does seem to have turned his focus back to his manicure. Maybe Shirabu doesn’t need to be suspicious.

He should have been suspicious.

No sooner can Shirabu ask if Yahaba wants to go check out a new bar that opened up, he’s being pinned to the floor by Yahaba’s freakish strength.

Shirabu would struggle, but their position has him neatly confined. All he can do is give Yahaba the most acid-laced scowl he can conjure up. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“This is an intervention,” Yahaba yells, alerting both their neighbors that if they want to hear about Shirabu’s dirty laundry, they should tune in now. “You need to stop acting like an emotionally constipated bitch.”

Shirabu lets out a sharp exhale. “Excuse me, a  _ what _ ?”

“Ugh. Don’t be obtuse. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh wow, breaking out the big guns. ‘Obtuse’ is a big word for you, Yahaba.”

“I know you care about Goshiki,” Yahaba blurts. His voice is high and strained to match the frustrated flush on his face. “So you can either tell me, your supposed best friend, what happened. Or we can sit like this all night.”

One, Shirabu regrets representing to Yahaba that the two of them were “best friends.” The guy has really taken that message to heart, using it as an excuse for all of his intrusive behavior. Two, if this were anyone else, Shirabu would hit them with a steely glare, and their resolve would break. Unfortunately, Yahaba is immune to his tricks; he’ll be stuck until he talks.

“If you  _ must _ know, Goshiki told me that we couldn’t fuck anymore.”

Yahaba wrinkles his nose at the use of the word “fuck” to describe their arrangement. “Ok. Did he give you a reason?”

“Get your ass off me and I’ll tell you.”

“Fine. You better not bolt.”

Yahaba slides his leg over, so he’s sitting next to Shirabu, rather than straddling him. He offers out a hand to help him sit up, which Shirabu takes with a final pouty glare.

“He said we couldn’t ‘see’ each other anymore, unless I agreed to try going on an actual date.”

Yahaba cocks his head. “Wait, he doesn’t consider what you two have been doing dating?”

“Dipshit, I  _ just _ told you we weren’t dating. I also told Goshiki that, and he was...surprised to say the least.”

“Hm.” Yahaba taps a finger to his chin. “I mean, you  _ were _ kind of like rabbits for a while there. But I also saw the way you interacted. You let him treat you like a boyfriend. So you can’t be mad when that’s how he sees you.”

Shirabu frowns. “I still don’t see why we need to go on a date.”

“Think about it. I’m sure that big brain of yours can figure it out.”

No, it can’t, because it doesn’t make sense. Shirabu doesn’t see why he needs to go on an official “date” to prove anything to Goshiki. Their relationship, or whatever, is fine the way it is. 

Yahaba uses the silence as a signal to continue. “Listen, I don’t know a ton about the guy, but I can tell Goshiki is crazy about you and not just for your body.”

Hearing those words, even second-hand, manages to draw color to Shirabu’s cheeks, and lowers his gaze to avoid eye contact. Yahaba giggles at his embarrassment and ruffles his hair. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and encouraging.

“Don’t overanalyze this. He just wants some assurance that you feel the same. I mean, you do feel the same, don’t you?”

“No comment,” Shirabu mumbles at the floor, not daring to lift his face to speak clearly. It’s one thing to harbor these thoughts in the safe confines of his mind, to indulge whenever he has a moment of weakness. It’s another to put them out into the world.

“I don’t see the issue then. Go on a fucking date with him,” Yahaba says matter-of-factly. He claps his hands together to signal that he’s rendered his conclusion.

“No.” Yahaba has already gotten more out of this conversation than Shirabu would have liked, he’s not just going to roll over and let Yahaba dictate his love life. Plus, if he waits long enough, Goshiki will come back to him, won’t he?

_ Perhaps _ , the little voice in his head taunts,  _ or perhaps not. And if he doesn’t, it’s all your fault _ .  _ But isn’t it always? _

“Ok fine,” Shirabu says, reaching across the table to grab his phone. “Here.” He offers it over to Yahaba. “You have to do it.”

Instead of preaching the virtues of agency and responsibility for one’s actions, Yahaba takes the phone with a satisfied smile. “Anything in particular you’d like me to say?”

Shirabu’s fists clench as he fights every instinct to tackle Yahaba and steal his phone back. “Just get me a date,” he snaps.

Yahaba complies, tapping away at the screen until a “ _ whoosh _ ” signals that the deed is done. When there’s no immediate response, a curl of dread settles in Shirabu’s stomach. Feeling weak, he crawls over to Yahaba and rests his head against his shoulder for comfort.

“It’ll be ok,” he assures, rubbing soothing patterns on Shirabu’s back. “You have to give it time.”

Fifteen minutes, or maybe an eternity, pass before his phone lights up. He looks at Yahaba, implicitly inviting him to view the response. The wait is excruciating as he reads the message, brow furrowed. When he doesn’t relay anything, Shirabu’s heart drops.

“Is it bad,” Shirabu says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Goshiki wants to know if you can do something tonight. He seems excited.”

Shirabu nods. It’s all he can do amidst the sense of relief and bubbles of happy anticipation in his chest. He’s gotten in way too deep with this one, the least he can do is stop fighting the current and see where it takes him.

“Alright, I gave him the green light. But you and I are going to have to fight the clock.” Yahaba stands, gesturing urgently for Shirabu to do the same. “Go get in the shower. I’ll find you something weather-appropriate to wear. Since I know you can’t do that yourself.”

Normally this would be the part where Shirabu would yell at Yahaba’s micromanaging. As a fiercely independent person, he’s accustomed to watching his back and handling his shit. But it can be exhausting walking through life solo, and sometimes, every once in a blue moon, it’s comforting to be reminded that someone is watching out for him, too.

⁂⁂⁂

“Pep it up! You need to leave in two minutes if you want to make the next train.” Yahaba stands in Shirabu’s doorway, arms crossed, foot tapping on the ground impatiently.

“Would you relax? I just need to grab my jacket.”

“I’m trying to help you out, no need to get snippy.”

“Yeah, yeah. I appreciate it,” Shirabu says. He’s being genuine, even if the sentiment gets lost in the rush. Because of Yahaba, he’s going to make the next train with time to spare —a rare feat.

He grabs his coat and heads to the door for his shoes. Yahaba follows close behind, spouting off inspirational messages and well wishes for his date.

“...just try to keep an open mind,” he lectures. “But you don’t have to settle for anything either.”

“Noted.” Shirabu finishes lacing his boots and stands to face Yahaba. “Thank you for everything.”

“Of course.” He wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “I’m so happy you’re doing this.”

“I’ll text you the plan, don’t wait up.”

“Sounds good. Have fun!”

Shirabu reaches for the door, then stops, hand hovering over the knob. “Speaking of  _ fun _ , you and Kyoutani better not fuck in the kitchen because you think I’m not coming home. I swear to god I will move out if I have to walk in on that again.”

“Bye! Time to go,” Yahaba announces, ushering Shirabu out the door.

The train ride is quick, so quick that he doesn’t have time to ruminate over what he’s gotten himself into. In a pinch, he decides to take Yahaba’s suggestion of keeping an open mind. It may be more carefree of an outlook than he’s used to, but he  _ really _ needs to maintain perspective. This is a date, not a marriage ceremony; he’s not bound to anything just for showing up.

It’s not like he’s meeting Goshiki for the first time, either. The blessing of their relationship is their history —they’ve  known each other for four, going on five years. Which means that they’ve already endeavored through the tenuous “getting to know you” stage all couples go through; they’ve seen each other at their best and worst; they’re familiar with each other’s strengths, flaws, and even kinks.

At this point, a defined relationship for them would be a small step forward, rather than a radical paradigm shift. And a small step doesn’t seem so scary, especially if he has Goshiki by his side.

Finding himself In a much more positive headspace, Shirabu is thankful to find that his anxiety has all but abated as he follows the directions from the train station to the pin-drop on the map.

That is until he sees Goshiki, leaning against the side of a building, looking effortlessly cool in a black coat and fitted jeans, and he loses every shred of composure he has. He’s back in middle school, palms sweating, heart pounding; it’s all so humiliating, he considers slipping away into the darkness.

“Hey, Shirabu!”

Or not.

He’s forced to close the distance between them and is welcomed with a smile and a hug.

“Was it easy to find me? I’ve never dropped a pin on my location before,” Goshiki asks.

“It was, you did it perfectly.” Shirabu surveys the area. He’s been so focused on the directions from his phone, he didn’t stop to look around. Right now, they’re at the edge of an unfamiliar shopping district. “What are we doing here?”

“Oh!” Goshiki flushes, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. It’s reassuring to see he’s nervous, too. “I thought we could get dinner and walk around. If you’re not too tired after that, I have a surprise in mind.”

“A surprise, eh?” Shirabu cocks an eyebrow, it’s impressive and flattering to see how much effort he’s put into this date, especially considering how last minute it was. “I’ll look forward to it. For now, though, maybe we could go inside? I think I just felt a raindrop.”

Sure enough, it begins to drizzle, not hard enough to be soaking, but enough to be a bit of a nuisance.

“Yes, of course! Let’s go explore the indoor mall and you can pick a restaurant when you’re ready.”

They end up eating seafood at a hole-in-the-wall café, where Shirabu is delighted to find fried whitebait, one of his favorite foods, on the menu. Even better than that, though, is how naturally the night is going. Their conversation is light and easy, and there’s not a hint of residual awkwardness from their strained last interaction.

In fact, they’re so lost in their own world, that they finish dinner, two pots of tea, and dessert before realizing that they’ve probably overstayed their welcome and should clear the table for waiting customers.

“What would you like to do now,” Shirabu asks. They’re back in the lobby of the shops, standing idly by a statue of a cartoon character from a popular children’s show.

Goshiki checks his phone. “I think we should probably head over to surprise before it gets too late. That is, if you’re still interested.”

Shirabu doesn’t hesitate in his answer. “Of course, I’m intrigued.” A muffled pounding from above grabs his attention, and he looks up to find a skylight, being pelted with rain. “But perhaps we should find an umbrella first?”

They walk the entirety of the main street, then keep going. Shirabu has no idea where the hell they are, so he allows Goshiki to lead under the assumption that he knows the way. The deluge from inside may have passed, but it’s still far too wet to wander aimlessly. Even with the newly purchased umbrella, Shirabu can feel occasional droplets blown against his face, and the unexpected moisture chills him, making him shiver and sneeze.

“Are we almost there,” Shirabu asks with a sniff. The question makes him feel like a petulant child on a road trip, but if they stay in the damp weather too long, he’ll catch cold. His immune system never does him any favors.

“Yes, but,” Goshiki trails off. “If you’re cold we shouldn’t be outside. We could go home and put you in the bath.”

The prospect of soaking in warm water is tempting, and Shirabu knows the offer likely comes with food, blankets fresh from the dryer, and lots of showered attention. It’s everything he could want in an evening, all without the risk of getting sick from exposure.

Then he remembers the sparkle in Goshiki’s eyes when he mentioned the surprise end to their date. He can step outside of his comfort zone for one night.

“I’m fine. If you say it’s not far, let’s keep going.” Shirabu tries to look as calm and not freezing as possible. His body betrays him with another shiver.

Goshiki frowns and starts unbuttoning his coat. The  _ exact _ overreaction Shirabu was hoping to avoid. “Here, please wear this,” he says, struggling to pull his sweatered arm out of the sleeve.

“You ding-dong. If you give me your coat, how will you stay warm?”

He stops in his tracks, arm halfway-in, halfway-out of the sleeve, processing the logic of Shirabu’s statement. When he realizes that giving up his coat would be to his detriment, he sheepishly puts it back on.

“You can’t take care of me if we’re both sick,” Shirabu adds.

“Right!” Appealing to Goshiki’s sense of duty is the easiest way to get a point across.

The two resume their walk, this time, with Goshiki holding Shirabu close, or as close as he can without tripping them both. It’s warmer than before with their shared body heat, but it’s also clumsy, like they’re running some sort of romantic three-legged race.

After passing through another outdoor market, the road opens up into the grassy fields of a park. Though it’s stormy and well past dark, there are a number of people on the paths, all heading towards a spot obscured by a small hill.

“Look, we’re so close now,” Goshiki says, gesturing at some unknown point in the distance. Shirabu assumes that they’re headed the same direction as everyone else.

The path they choose loops through the field, then, a grove of trees. Shirabu enjoys this portion. The patter of the rain on the branches and leaves is soothing, and he’s invigorated by the smell of damp bark and earth. He’d stay here all night if Goshiki let him, but he’s eagerly pulling on his arm, forcing him to keep a steady pace. When they get to a break in the trees, he understands why.

They’re standing near the edge of the water, looking out into what appears to be a private marina. But the water isn’t the main draw; out in the distance, several boats, strung up with shimmering lights of all different colors, cruise slowly in the bay. It’s a beautiful sight, unexpected and surreal. It’s easy to see why people have camped out on towels and blankets, despite the inclement weather.

“What’s the occasion,” Shirabu asks. He’s not going to scrutinize the display, but it’s strange to see this kind of fanfare for no reason.

“There’s no occasion,” Goshiki explains. “It’s just for fun.”

“How do you know about this?” A dark, accusatory part of Shirabu wonders if Goshiki takes all his dates here. He has to admit it’s the perfect place to charm a love interest. Even a cynic like him could swept away by the magic of it all.

“My family participated a few times when I was younger. So I try to come every once in a while. It only happens once a season, that’s why I was so excited you texted me today.”  

Fair enough. Shirabu quashes the last of his negative thoughts with the image of young Goshiki sitting on the deck of his family’s boat, waving excitedly at people he doesn’t even realize can’t see him. It’s funny how the things Shirabu would have once found annoying have shifted to endearing. Everything is about perspective, and it’s both terrifying and wonderful to see how his perspective on Goshiki is changing.

He interrupts Shirabu’s thoughts with a hand on his back, directing him to continue past the lawn, where the spectators on blankets are spread, to a gazebo further down the shoreline. It looks old and smells suspiciously musty, but Shirabu is grateful for the protection of a covered seating area.

The wood on the bench is damp, so he perches himself on top of the table, which seems to have escaped the brunt of the wind-blown raindrops. Goshiki sits as well and wraps an arm around Shirabu, encouraging him to scoot closer. He has to brush some droplets off Goshiki’s wool coat before he can rest against his shoulder comfortably but, once he does, he’s rewarded with a soft kiss to the top of his head. The contact sends a jolt of warmth through his body, and he reflexively rubs his cheek against the scratchy fabric in appreciation, eliciting a happy hum from Goshiki.

Once settled, they watch the adorned boats continue their lazy paths across the marina. Shirabu doesn’t mind the quiet; he’s content to listen to the muffled patter of the rain on the roof while his fingers trace patterns over Goshiki’s knuckles.

Unfortunately, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that something isn’t right. It’s unusual for Goshiki to let a silence ride, rather than breaking it, and he hasn’t said a word since they sat down. Shirabu discreetly glances over and is dismayed to see his lip caught between his teeth, a gesture he recognizes as a subtle tell of worry.

“Is something on your mind,” he asks. Opening a can of worms never a good idea, but seeing Goshiki in distress is worse. Shirabu may not be warm or fuzzy, but he’s not the same emotionally self-centered brat he was in high school.

“Huh?” Goshiki turns, tilting his head. “Is something on my mind,” he parrots.

Shirabu has to stifle a groan at that one. “I don’t know, Goshiki. I’m not a mind reader.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Flustered, he waves his free hand in front of his chest. “I was just thinking.”

“Ah, what a rare pleasure,” Shirabu says with a laugh. He’s aware the tease might be inappropriate for the situation, but he can’t resist a little bit of ruffling.

“I wanted to tell you something. I just didn’t know the best way to say it.”

_ That _ snaps Shirabu to attention. Nothing like an “I want to tell you something” conversation starter to get your blood pumping.

“What is it,” he asks — against his his best instincts.

Goshiki takes one quick breath through his nose, centering himself. “I’m happy you agreed to come out with me tonight. I’m having a lot of fun, and I hope you are, too.”

Shirabu blinks. Well, that wasn’t so bad. “I appreciate the sentiment but you really don’t have to —”

“Please let me finish.” Goshiki interrupts. Then, sensing Shirabu’s irritation at being cut-off, he reprises his demand. “I’m sorry. I just need to get this out before I lose my words.”

“Go on then.”

“I owe you an apology for what I said at the train station. It was low of me to corner you. I guess I got so wrapped up in wanting to be in a relationship, that I sort of lost sight of things.” Goshiki scratches at the back of his head, loosening a lock of hair from where it’s pulled back, halfway-up, halfway-down. “The bottom line is I like spending time with you, and I’d be happy to do that in whatever way you’re comfortable with. All you have to do is tell me: what do  _ you _ want?”

He’s speechless. Goshiki has grown immensely from high school, but this level of emotional depth and intelligence comes as a complete, albeit pleasant surprise. He’s also asked a question that Shirabu isn’t accustomed to hearing, at least not in a romantic context. Most other guys, with the exception of Semi, have treated his elusive nature as an invitation to control him, rather than understand him. It’s refreshing to be offered the floor, to have the opportunity to have his say in the relationship, rather than bail out when it doesn’t meet his expectations.

And he appreciates how difficult this decision must have been for Goshiki, too. The guy is a traditionalist in every sense of the word. He wants commitment and stability. He wants dates, well-celebrated anniversaries, gratuitous “I love you’s,” and many other things Shirabu has been diametrically opposed to. To put himself in a space where he’s willing to give all that up for the sake of someone else’s needs? It’s entirely selfless — and entirely Goshiki.

Quite frankly, Shirabu is uncertain if he will ever be the exceptional companion he deserves.

But he can sure as hell try.

“I want—” he starts slowly, squeezing Goshiki’s hand for reassurance. When he squeezes back, Shirabu feels a swell of courage, urging him to finish his thought.

“I want—” He may not be able to offer a romantic confession, or the promise of an easy relationship, but there is one, valuable gift that he’s willing to put on the table: a future.

“I want to visit to where you grew up, to see the ocean with you. Maybe we can walk on the beach, collect some sea glass.”

As long as Shirabu lives, he’ll never forget the look on Goshiki’s face. His grey eyes shine in the low light—but not with the glow they have when he’s praised, or when he scores a winning point, or even when he’s given a pat on the back or a hug. It’s an indescribable emotion, rare and fleeting, the kind Shirabu might go a whole lifetime without eliciting from Goshiki again.

“You’d want that?” His voice wobbles. “But my parents are out there, my sisters, too.”

“I know.” Shirabu actually met the whole clan back in high school, after his last game as captain. The circumstances weren’t great (they lost, Goshiki was inconsolable), but they seemed nice enough, if not a bit excitable. A perfect foil for his own family. “It doesn’t have to be now. Maybe when the weather warms up.”

“Thank you, Kenijrou.” Goshiki’s lower lip trembles. “I—I’d really like that.”

“Please don’t cry,” Shirabu begs. There’s a fragility in him, the kind he gets when he’s been vulnerable. If Goshiki cries, well, there’s no telling what loathsome reaction it could draw out.

But it’s too late, and all he can do is open his arms and let Goshiki fall into them. It’s overwhelming, trying to hold on tight while he alternates rapidly between peppering kisses on his face, bawling, and nuzzling their foreheads together. Shirabu does his best to take it all in stride, ignoring the light prickles at the sides of his own eyes. He doesn’t need to lay all his cards on the table tonight. If they’re in this for the long haul, he’ll need to save some tricks to keep Goshiki on his toes.

“Are you ready to go?” The question is muffled, as Goshiki speaks directly into the crook of Shirabu’s neck. He took shelter there and hasn’t emerged, even after his sobs fizzled into the occasional quiet hiccup.

They really should get home. The temperature is dropping by the minute, the rain is starting to pick up, and the waiting time between each train is getting longer and longer. Despite all that, Shirabu finds himself asking for more time. He wants to stay in this moment a little longer. Something strange and special happened here tonight, and when they leave this old, suspiciously musty gazebo, their relationship will be inextricably changed.

From behind Goshiki’s shoulder,  Shirabu gazes at the inky black water. He imagines that he’s still out there, floating somewhere beneath the surface, batted by the current and pushed and pulled by the tides. But he’s close to the shore now, in the shallows, where the warmth of the sun is  _ just  _ out of his reach. All he needs is one more swell to push him up onto dry land.

And the way his heart feels, precious and safe in Goshiki’s arms, he thinks that wave will come for him soon.

 

_ Being treasured is its own reward. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …mature goshiki is my heart kink. also, I love them. they deserve happiness beyond measure.
> 
> anywho, thanks for making it here, and I do hope you enjoyed. kudos and/or comments are never expected but always kindly appreciated. I’d love to hear what you thought! 
> 
> take care of yourself and others, and I hope to see you next time ♡♡


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